The God of Heav’n forgive thee! Dost not wonder
I pray for thee? I’ll tell thee what’s the reason:
I have scarce breath to number twenty minutes;
I’d not spend that in cursing. Fare thee well!
Half of thyself lies there; and may’st thou live
To fill an hour-glass with his moulder’d ashes,
To tell how thou should’st spend the time to come
In blest repentance.
Brach. Mother, pray tell me,
How came he by his death? What was the quarrel?